Total pages in book: 66
Estimated words: 60105 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 301(@200wpm)___ 240(@250wpm)___ 200(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 60105 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 301(@200wpm)___ 240(@250wpm)___ 200(@300wpm)
“You look beautiful, Andrea,” Dylan murmured as he pulled back, his hazel eyes roaming appreciatively over my dress. The warmth in his gaze made me feel both cherished and revealed, and I ducked my head shyly.
“Thank you,” I whispered, hardly daring to meet his eyes. “You look very handsome too.”
Dylan’s smile widened, and he offered me his arm. “Shall we?”
As I placed my hand in the crook of his elbow, I couldn’t help but feel a thrill of excitement. Despite my nervousness, I had a feeling this date would be very different from my evening with Ethan.
Devin cleared his throat, drawing our attention back to him and Greta on the couch. “I’d like you home by ten,” he said, his tone stern.
I felt my stomach drop at the early curfew. The evening had barely begun, and already it felt like it would be cut short. But before I could voice any disappointment, Greta spoke up.
“Oh, I don’t think that should be a problem, dear,” she said, a knowing smile playing at her lips. Her eyes flicked between Dylan and me, a glint of amusement in their depths. “I’m sure Dylan will want to take Andrea up to her bedroom when they get home.”
My face blazed with heat at her words, the implication clear. Images from my night with Ethan flashed through my mind—his rough hands, his demanding cock. But when I glanced up at Dylan, I saw only kindness in his eyes.
“We’ll have to see how Andrea is feeling at the end of the date,” he said softly, giving my hand a gentle squeeze. His voice was warm but firm, making it clear he wouldn’t be pressured into anything, and meant to make certain I wouldn’t either.
The drive to the Trattoria was short but really quite pretty. Unlike Ethan’s, Dylan’s truck seemed clean and well-maintained. As we drove down Main Street, the setting sun painted the sky in brilliant hues of orange and pink, casting a warm glow over the quaint storefronts. Cato seemed like it might be a place where even a normal person would want to settle down.
Dylan sauntered around the front of the truck to open my door for me. The scent of garlic and herbs wafted from the Trattoria, making my mouth water. The restaurant’s facade had a red and white striped awning and window boxes overflowing with colorful flowers.
Inside, the atmosphere felt cozy and intimate. Soft Italian music played in the background, and the walls bore vintage posters and black-and-white photographs of the Italian countryside. Candles flickered on each table.
The hostess, a petite woman with a welcoming smile, led us to a secluded corner table. Dylan pulled out my chair for me, his hand brushing lightly against my back as I sat down. The touch, though brief, sent a thrill down my spine.
As we settled into our seats, I couldn’t help but feel a bit overwhelmed. The intimate setting, the soft candlelight, Dylan’s attentive gaze—it was all so different from my date with Ethan. I fiddled nervously with my napkin, unsure of what to say.
Dylan seemed to sense my discomfort. He cleared his throat, his own fingers tapping a restless rhythm on the table. “So, um,” he began, then paused, as if searching for the right words. “How are you finding Cato so far?”
I gave a small, noncommittal shrug. “It’s… different,” I said carefully, not wanting to offend. “Very quiet compared to the city.”
Dylan nodded, a wry smile tugging at his lips. “I can imagine. Must be quite an adjustment.”
An awkward silence fell between us. I took a sip of water, desperately trying to think of something to say. Dylan seemed equally at a loss, his eyes darting around the restaurant as if seeking inspiration.
Finally, he turned back to me, his expression softening. “Andrea,” he said gently, “what do you like to do? Or, I guess I should ask, what did you like to do in the city? I’m sure you don’t get to do it now, whatever it is.”
His words, spoken with genuine curiosity and a hint of sympathy, caught me off guard. I couldn’t help but laugh, the tension easing from my shoulders. “Actually, no,” I protested. “I do get to do something I enjoy. I like to watch old movies, and Greta lets me do that when my housemaid duties are done.”
Dylan’s face lit up with interest. “Old movies? That’s great! What kind do you like best?”
I felt a warmth spread through my chest at his enthusiasm. “I love old musicals,” I told him, my voice growing animated as I spoke about my silly little passion. “There’s just something, you know, magical about them—the music, the dancing, the… I don’t know. They kind of, like, transport you to another world.”
“Musicals, huh?” Dylan leaned forward, his hazel eyes twinkling. “I guess I don’t really know very much about them, but Singin’ in the Rain has been my favorite movie since I was little. Does that, you know, count?”